


The Devil of Rose Creek

by writer_rambles



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ensemble cast gets their moments to shine, Gen, M/M, Someone please feed Billy Rocks, Supernatural Elements, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:34:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9333569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer_rambles/pseuds/writer_rambles
Summary: Three tales and three truths: Billy wasn’t human, Goodnight very much was, and that was enough.Or.Billy saves everyone, makes some friends, and falls in love.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nopholom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopholom/gifts).



**Some time before Rose Creek:**

It was raining. Great big droplets, the kind that hit any obstacle with an audible thump and left little pock marks in the dirt. If it had been any other night Goodnight would have insisted upon finding shelter from the rain. He would have picked up his hat and dusted it off, unnecessarily, before setting it on his head at a jaunty angle. Water would have spilled from the brim and Billy would have smiled at the sight.

If it had been any other night, Goodnight’s heart would have melted at the sight of Billy’s smile right about now. Considering it was not any other night, Goodnight was content to stand in the rain and gape at the sight in front of him, forgetting just about every lick of sense and ounce of manners he prided in himself as a southern gentleman.

“I believe,” Goodnight said, finally finding some of his voice, “that you are familiar with my moniker?”

Billy’s smile was a small, thin thing.  “Yes. I have always thought it to be…unfortunate.”

Goodnight swallowed around the lump in his throat. “No…no…that’s not, ah, not very…what I mean was…” He trailed off and for the second time that night, and probably only the fifth time in his life, Goodnight Robicheaux had nothing to say.

Billy’s wings shuffled in a way that Goodnight’s brain distantly recognized as the same way Billy would roll his shoulder when he was nervous. And there was the issue at hand, the subject of the night, the elephant in the room, if you will. Billy’s wings. ‘My god,’ Goodnight’s heart thumped in his chest at the thought. ‘Billy’s _wings_.’ They were really beautiful once the mind stopped screaming at the sight of something so out of the ordinary and went onto process what it was seeing.  Long and dark, they blocked out the world even while the two men stood on the edge of the cliff with virtually nothing around but the open air.

It was difficult to tell in the dark and rain if the feathers that covered Billy’s wings (Billy’s _wings_!, Goodnight’s brain helpfully reiterated) were truly an inky black, or if they were the same warm brown as Billy’s hair.

How far could he fly? How easily could Billy (wonderful, amazing Billy) leave if Goodnight said the wrong thing tonight in the face of the unknown?

Billy pulled his wings close, as if that helped make them any less obvious. Some of his feathers were jagged, he knew. Edges mussed or straight up torn. In terms of making an impression on your closest companion when revealing, “hey, look at me, I’ve had feathers all this time” Billy really thought he could do better. Goodnight was always so complementary about Billy, however. (When he wasn’t tongue tied and starting at Billy like he hung the stars.) He knew when to speak and when something shouldn’t be spoken of. Billy would not regret sharing this part of him. (If only Goodnight would say anything right now and prove him right.)

Head up, chin up, Billy stared at Goodnight, willing him to say something. He was not ashamed of his actions, he did not regret revealing his wings if they allowed him to save his Goodnight’s life, but he also would not allow them to end like this. After all their years together, Billy refused to part in rain and mud.

Across the gull, pieces of the collapsing rock face continued to break off into the river far below. The sound was mostly lost to the storm and distance but the rumble of a particularly large section falling – one that rivaled the size that almost stole Goodnight away – helped to distract both men from the thoughts consuming their minds.

With some difficulty, Goodnight looked away from Billy’s wings and met his gaze instead. Billy stared back with eyes that were both familiar and new, brown irises bleeding into black sclera making for a stunning sight. A strong gaze, softened by affection…Goodnight knew these eyes. He loved these eyes. Something of his thoughts must have shown on Goodnight’s face, for the tension in Billy’s shoulders and wings started to fade away.

At once, Billy and Goodnight seemed to come to the same conclusion. The idea that either of them would leave was so preposterous it should never have been considered even for the split second of concern.

Nothing about this would change them. They were Billy and Goodnight, Goodnight and Billy. Inseparable was the name of the game. 

Goodnight had known Billy for so long that he knew the other man better than he knew himself. Years with each other’s company were long enough to learn the ins and outs of Billy’s personality. They could have entire conversations based on expressions alone and could predict each other’s actions so well that if Billy said jump, Goodnight always knew how high.

 He knew Billy’s thoughts and nightmares as well as Goodnight’s own, he knew Billy’s moves – knew that Billy had not needed to think twice before following after Goodnight the moment the cliff side gave way, knew that it wasn’t even a question of keeping this secret or saving Goodnight’s life.

As it so happened between them, each of these facts was undeniably true for Billy as well.

Billy relaxed more with each passing second even as the rain showed no sign of stopping and they had likely lost most of their gear to the rapids below. Just as their years together had left a mark on Goodnight, so had they on Billy. Wings or no, nothing would be changing this night except for the strengthening of a relationship and the comfort of understanding.

Still…

“I wish you would say something.”

Goodnight laughed (and didn’t that just make Billy’s heart warm in adoration), strangely bashful about how long he’d been staring. “That’s a first.” He seemed to finally notice that his hat was in the mud, soaking up water and who knows what else, and reached down to pick it up.

 “My sweet mother, god bless her soul, always said that there’s a first time for everything. Of course she also insisted upon drinking a cup of warm lemonade before bed, too, and, Billy, you know how I feel about lemonade…” Goodnight trailed off as Billy gave his arms a weird shake.

As instantly as they had shown up that evening the wings were gone. Where enormous feathers had just sprouted from Billy’s arms a few seconds ago only flesh remained. His shirt sleeves were untouched and his ever present gloves felt solid as Billy grabbed Goodnight’s hands, wrapping his fingers around those on his hat. Goodnight must’ve said something to make Billy smile so warmly but if questioned he would not be able to recall what it was.

Billy plucked Goodnight’s hat free and inspected it with a vague disinterested air. “Three times in one night, that must be a new record.”

He ineffectually wiped at the mud, pointedly looking away from Goodnight. Goodnight’s presence (calm, here, alive! unharmed) sent a constant shock of warmth through Billy and it wasn’t easy to meet his eyes just yet.

“I never once doubted your ability to do the impossible.”

“I grew wings tonight and you think shutting up Goodnight Robicheaux is my great achievement.”

“Of course, unless you’re the only winged man or woman,” Billy shook his head negative, “then there must be at least dozens who can grow wings and fly. The way I see it, however, there’s still just one Billy Rocks, and that’s more amazing than all the angels in the world.”

 “Angels?”

“No?”

  
“No.”

“Harpies?” Goodnight ventured, thinking of long nights spent reading aloud while Billy listened lazily on.

Billy shook his head. “No, no, my kind...we’re more like…messengers.”

Goodnight thought this over. “Messengers….I can understand that. Considering how quickly you brought light into this old sharpshooter’s life, you must have been sent by the sun itself.” Billy rolled his eyes and slapped the hat onto Goodnight’s head. He didn’t know how close he was.

“Come on.”

“Come on? Where will we be going to on this fine, damp night?”

“Back over. If my pack survived then at least we will have a dry blanket and dinner when we make shelter.”

“Always thinking with your stomach, _mon cher_. How do you propose we get you to your dinner?”

Billy smirked and flicked his arms and the same magnificent wings burst forth. Goodnight barely had time to jump back to avoid being hit.

“The same way we came over.”

Explanations would come later of course. Once they were both wrapped up under a wool blanket at the back of the cave. Goodnight wouldn’t ask for more than Billy would share, but he’d sit attentive and alert as Billy spoke of crows and the sun. Billy would reach for Goodnight’s hand as he whispered about spirits and the people who sought them in between drags of a cigarette. Goodnight would gently stroke the scars Billy hid beneath old leather and they’d sit comfortably together until sunrise.

For now, however, they flew.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Some time during:**

Billy did not have many friends.

It was the nature of a vagabond, the wanted man. He had walked away from his crime with blood on his hands and solitude at his side. Between his bounty, the country’s prejudices, and Billy’s close kept secret, he did not have an inclination towards companionship.

But then things changed.

He had Goodnight, who was a friend. Then he had Goodnight, who was something more. In time, he came to have by extension Sam Chisolm as a friend, as well as the rest of their merry band of Rose Creek defenders. In a surprisingly short time it became that they stopped being friends by extension and were just friends. A strange family forged in fire and bonded by blood spilt. It’s funny how quickly things can change in a few days.

 

Billy felt for Rose Creek the moment he stepped on its cursed soil. The souls of the lost and despaired reached out for him and he could swear he felt ghostly hands grasping at feathers hidden away by whatever strange magic that kept them from prying eyes. Goodnight’s discomfort took Billy’s mind off his own in those first few hours. It was enough to slowly accustom Billy to the grief of the men and women lost to human greed.

They begged him to save not themselves, but their loved ones.

He told them in soft whispers that it will be okay, that these seven intruders were here to help. He did not know if spirits had an unearthly ability to comprehend languages beyond those they knew in life, but his soul tugged at the words he was born into and so that is what he used.

Vasquez gave him a look as they walked through quiet Rose Creek, the seven of them, and there was an odd knowing in his eyes.

‘What?’ Billy wanted to asked, ‘What do you know?’ He didn’t ask and Vasquez didn’t offer, just thumbed the medallion around his neck with a thoughtful expression.

When Goodnight left, riding off in the dark away from his fears and Billy, a yawning chasm had opened in Billy’s chest. He would not leave Rose Creek to its doom; he would not leave these tentative companions to their deaths. Even so, it hurt.

It hurt a lot.

Goodnight’s owls had followed him for years, night terrors and regret doing their worst. Billy was familiar with the concept. He’d dreamed once that he could out fly them. Far away he and Goody went that night, over the clouds, to a place Billy only instinctively knew. When the dream ended, as they tend to do, Billy had woken up feeling dazed. For a moment he’d been ready to change, to put on his feathers and steal Goody away into the night. He didn’t though, they were not ready.

Here now though, in Rose Creek alone with limited time and pitying expressions following his footsteps, what-ifs dogged Billy’s thoughts until he shook them away to focus on the present. Goodnight would return. If Billy knew him at all Goodnight would be back.

This pain was only temporary.

And then of course Goodnight came back. He tore through Rose Creek’s dirt streets like the devil was on his tail. Luckily, some would mummer later, he had one by his side as well.

That was later.

At the moment, Billy laughed alongside Goody in that little church tower. They’re drunk off of their reunion and adrenaline and Billy was full to bursting with delight. The spirits sang around them, rousing their earthly friends and family to fight for what was theirs.

It was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

When the bullets first hit him, Billy was not sure what would happen next.  When the bullets hit Goodnight, and he tumbled off the church tower, Billy felt punched in the chest by more than just the Gatling gun.

The pain burned and woke something fierce in him.

Between one breath (Oh, Goody) and the next, Billy was staring down at his own body. Distantly, Billy knew that he should find that odd. He understood that it should phase him, but it didn’t. He wasn’t himself at the moment, you see.

Or maybe he was.

Had anyone been looking at the church tower at the moment they would have seen a crow perched on one of the edges. It was somewhat thin for a crow, and it’s feathers –somewhere between a warm brown and pitch black depending on how the light hit them- were bent and ragged as if bearing the mark of some past trauma, though clearly well-loved.

Keen eyes might have noticed the crow had three legs.

No one was looking as they were quite busy with their own survival. (It was understandable.) They missed the crow calling out over the sounds of gunfire and explosions. It was somewhat harder to miss the way it flew over the battlefield, however. It flew over the dead, landing on some briefly, lingering longer on the southern sharpshooter, before taking off again like it was on a mission.

In some instances it flew straight at Bogue’s men, somehow evading bullets and flailing weapons in all the chaos.

Later, Emma would recall the crow making eye contact with her over the body of her supposedly dead townsman. She would say it brought a measure of peace before taking off again.

Faraday would scoff and then groan as he jostled his healing ribs. Red Harvest would laugh from where he was helping rewrap the bandages around Billy’s chest, and Billy would be content.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Some time after:**

Billy rocks shed his humanity like a coat.

One moment he was as human as he’d ever been known to be and in the next he was _more_. Blood and wings and _despair_.

Kindness and hope and _love_.

Survivors would talk about the Devil of Rose Creek for years. The strange bird, once a man, and then something more, that revived the dead. He was something to be feared. He was something to be thanked.

(In reality, Billy had merely coaxed their souls back. He plucked them one by one and brought them back to their rightful places, as any dutiful messenger should. “Everyone’s recovery is all their own,” he explained. Goody just gave him that fond smile that told Billy he didn’t believe him.)

Personally, Sam was able to see the humor. “What a fine pair you make,” he’d said of the situation to Billy and Goodnight. “The Angel of Death and his Devil of Rose Creek.” At once the two men seemed to deflate, tension and nerves fading away at this first tentative sign of acceptance.

 

Goodnight reached out his hand to Billy, and Billy met him halfway. The small remaining bunch of feathers at his wrist (a remnant of a full transformation, slow to vanish) tickled but did not bunch up where they pressed against Goodnight. It was such a small detail, easily missed by those who looked but did not see. Change. Acceptance. Whatever it signified was good.

 

Sam felt an unspoken measure of hope grow in his chest, for them, for himself, for Rose Creek. For the future.  Welcomeness, acceptance, love. Whatever it was, it was good.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**And then, a little more:**

Billy Rocks did not blink. It’s not something Sam noticed at first but who can blame him? It’s not often that someone goes around noticing how much or how little his newfound companion blinked.  But once Billy shared the matter of his wings with their little band of misfits (and the stunned but “we’ve been through a lot in the last few weeks so we’re taking this pretty well” denizens of Rose Creek) it was easier to see the traits that marked Billy as just a bit more than ordinary.

 His eyes, for one thing.

Even as Billy often went about with his wings hid away, arms being much more useful in everyday life, he seemed to be comfortable enough letting his eyes remain as they were – completely black unless you were close enough to see the dark brown of his pupils.

Goodnight waxed poetic about them one night, after Faraday expressed some discomfort at not being able to tell where Billy was looking. He’d described them to be warm and comforting, like falling into a bed piled high with blankets and furs after a night out in the snow.

Billy had blushed to the amazement of the group, turning red as his eyes flickered between black and white while he tried to decide if he now needed to hide them away after such a private confession. They’d remained as they were, in the end, and Goodnight was pleased, resting his arm over the back of Billy’s chair. His hand played a little with the hair at Billy’s neck and Billy leaned into the touch.

Faraday didn’t bother to mention the subject again.

 

* * *

 

“Does the name bother you?”

Had he been anyone else, Billy would have stumbled. As it was, he gave Vasquez a look. Considering that, between the two of them it was Billy who was the supernatural being, it was rather unfair that Vasquez could step in and out of shadows like that.

All thoughts of Vasquez’s dramatics aside though…

“What name?” Billy had just woken up that morning after days of unconsciousness. Most everyone else understood the need to speak in plain English without dancing around the subject.

“The Devil of Rose Creek. That’s what they’re calling you.”

Billy made a face.

“If it’s any consolation, my friend, I’ve heard worse.”

“I’m not a devil.”

“It’s the wings,” Vasquez shrugged.

After everything, Billy had been found lying next to Goodnight by the church, human-shaped again, except for his wings deciding to linger. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there, or how he wasn’t a crow any longer, but he’d been conscious enough to remember Sam and Vasquez finding them and their surprise at seeing what had become of Billy. They’d been unable to hide carrying Billy through the town to a location he could recover in peace when he was sporting wings as long as Vasquez was tall, and the secret was out.

“Now, if you had something nicer, like bright bluebird wings…”

Billy scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I can live with the name.”

 

* * *

 

Red Harvest didn’t speak much, but neither did Billy so that was okay. A week after waking up, Billy was recovered enough to walk longer, but not enough that everyone was comfortable letting him be on his own for long.

Considering that Billy was the one with wings, they behaved like a bunch of mother hens.

Red Harvest was content to follow along without the need for conversation. He was curious; of course he was, but he didn’t ask and he didn’t question Billy about how he was feeling every five minutes and that’s what Billy needed at the moment.

(Billy cared about Goodnight of course, but the man could sink his teeth into something and worry himself to death if he wasn’t careful.)

So when Billy wanted to escape the town, get out of buildings for the day, and away from prying eyes and curious ears, it was Red Harvest he asked to go with him. They slowly wandered the fields for most of the morning out of respect for Billy’s injuries more than anything.  It was good.

It was good.

At one point Red Harvest had stopped to pick up something. A crow feather, he showed Billy. Part of it was matted with blood and it was smaller than Billy was used to seeing his feathers as, but it was still unmistakable. Billy had laughed softly at the sight and at Red Harvest’s questioning look, shook out his feathers. It was the first time he’d done so since the day of the battle, and the first time he’d revealed them willingly to someone aside from Goody.

“This is what I am used to,” Billy explained.

Red Harvest caught up in taking in Billy’s feathers met his eyes and smiled.

It was good.

Everything was going to be good.

 

* * *

 

“I saw you,” Horne said, his voice soft and wheezing a bit. Recovery was a long, slow process. Billy had peaked in on his and Faraday’s recovery, only to be asked to watch over them while Vasquez searched for dinner. “I saw you as I was dying. You told me not to leave, that my time was not up. Then you moved on to the boys down the street and told them the same.” Horne paused and peered intently at Billy. “That’s was you, was it not? An angel sent down to keep us on earth?”

Billy had been nodding along with Horne’s questions but then he paused.

“That was me but…”

“Not an angel.”

A head shake.

Horne thought for a moment. “A raven,” he decided. “Your wings.”

“A crow.”

Horne thought this over. From his bed by the window Faraday piped up. “A carrion bird.”  At Billy’s and Horne’s looks he smirked. “Means you eat dead things, right?”

“It means if we’re lucky, _guero_ , he might eat you.”  Billy at least managed to save the food before Vasquez and Faraday’s scuffle started.

 

* * *

 

“Here.”

Billy caught the apple that was thrown at him. He stared at it for a moment before looking to Sam. Sam shrugged and Billy rubbed at the apple’s waxy surface.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Everything, maybe.” Billy took a bite out of the apple instead of responding.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

 Billy crunched the apple.

“Goodnight explained it to me.”

Crunch.

“The reason why you didn’t wake up as quickly as the others.”

Crunch.

“You didn’t just save lives that day.”

Crunch. Crunch.

“You also weakened Bogue’s men. That took a lot out of you.”

Crunch.

“Hell. Our survival might be because of that and no one knows what to say about that.”

A pause.

“A lot of kids get to be tucked into bed by their fathers tonight because of you.”

Crunch.

“Bogue didn’t live to torment anyone else.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Still. How can you thank someone for literally saving their soul?”

Billy thought it over. “Another apple would be nice.”

 

* * *

 

Billy did not speak much of his past. He did not care to dwell on it, and very few people would push to know about it. Still, whatever happened lingered with Billy, Goodnight knew. The scars on his hands, the feathers that remained jagged and rumpled no matter how much Goodnight helped to put them to rights – these marks remained on the surface.

Rose Creek left its mark deeper down.

There was the good, of course. A lot of good came of Rose Creek. But nightmares had a habit of following men like Goodnight and Billy. The crow had chased away the owl, and now it was suffering.

From his own bed in their shared room, Goodnight listened to Billy toss and turn. He whispered things too quiet to understand but loud enough for his voice to break Goodnight’s heart.

Silently, Goodnight stood and made his way over to Billy. He made it halfway across the room before pausing to go back for the blankets on his bed. Billy liked to be warm and it always helped to pull him back from his nightmares.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Goodnight went to gently wake Billy when he suddenly sat up. Eyes wide and black and teeth bared by the light of the moon, Billy made for an impressively terrifying sight.

Goodnight jumped back automatically and fell to the floor, surprised. “Shit! Billy!”

Billy snapped out of his dream. He looked exhausted. “Goody?”

“Hey, I’m here. I’m here.” Goodnight righted himself and reached for Billy’s hand. “You really scared me for a moment there,” he said. “For a moment I could see why they’re calling you the Devil of- _woah_ -”

Billy had given up all pretenses of handholding and went straight to curling up next to Goodnight, pressed up against his side and half in his lap. Goodnight sighed and rested his head on Billy’s. “I killed them,” Billy said, quiet.

“We’ve killed many people, _mon cher_.”

Billy shook his head. “Bogue’s men, I killed them. I took their souls. I don’t remember much, but remember how it felt to rip a man’s soul out.” He shivered. “I don’t like it. That’s not what…that isn’t what’s supposed to happen, Goody.”

Goodnight paused, he’d never seen Billy like this before, and normally this discussion was happening the other way around. He needed to think over his words carefully. “I don’t know what it’s like to be you, Billy, I can’t know what that’s like. But I know what it’s like to regret what you’ve done so much that it consumes you and I can’t…I can’t let that happen to you.”

“It won’t.”

“Billy-“

“They’re just dreams, Goody.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

Billy scoffed.

“No, no, you’re right.” There was silence between the two of them, as they just sat and enjoyed the closeness.

“What can I do for you?” Goodnight whispered, hesitant to break the peace.

“You can stay.”

“Of course I’ll stay.”

“No, right now. Here. You can stay here.”

“Oh! Of course, yes, I can do that too.” Billy rolled his eyes over Goodnight’s fluster as they prepared to sleep, laying down facing each other and pulling the blankets over themselves in one big warm pile. They’d slept like this before, sharing numerous beds and blankets on cold nights, but this was different. Nicer.

Billy reached out for Goody’s hand to find it already searching for his own. They wrapped their fingers together in the darkness, and Billy leaned over to press his lips to Goodnight’s, just for a second, enough to feel him start to smile. They watched each other for a moment before drifting off.

Tomorrow would bring all sorts of things. They had done all they could for Rose Creek and now it was time for Rose Creek to take care of itself.

Their companions were healed and ready to hit the road. They had no clue where they were going or where they were going to end up, but that was the usual way of things.

The night was warm, the bed was soft enough, and Billy and Goody were happy.

For now, that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically this was more than three stories but I committed to the idea of that summary way too early and here we are. I took the prompt “the one where Billy is the supernatural being and Goody is the human” and ran fast and hard with it. I don’t know if this is really what anyone was expecting, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. 
> 
> If parts of it don’t make sense I wish I could say it’s because I pinch hit it in two nights with four hours of sleep somewhere in between, but it’s probably because I started having too many thoughts and feelings about this concept.
> 
> Billy’s crow-ness is loosely based on the concept of the three legged crow. I played with the idea that 1) wings 2) he can speak to ghosts 3) as a full crow he has some kind of persuasion with souls
> 
> *finger guns*
> 
> Shout out for Sperrywink for being rad. The true champion of this fic exchange. I haven't shared anything I've written in years, so thanks for this.
> 
> Also to Nopholom for the awesome prompts. I almost couldn't decide but went with where my heart took me. Hope this was somewhat to your liking.


End file.
